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Saturday, July 31, 2010

Yesterday afternoon, as a means to perk me up and help me escape (momentarily) from my cabin-fever induced insanity, I decided to head out to Dolphin Mall to have dinner at Dave & Busters and watch Dinner for Schmucks.Neither was done simultaneously.

I walked in alone and promptly sat down at a table by myself. Being ever-so-conscious of my Shakira hotness goal, I carefully looked down the menu to pick out something that I deemed healthy: a parmesan-crusted chicken Caesar salad. I also ordered a side of their mouth-watering seasoned fries (I can't resist them) and a drink that was thankfully half-priced due to happy hour. Halfway through the meal, I stopped because my stomach felt uncomfortably full. I doggy bagged the rest to eat it at home.

This morning, out of curiosity, I searched online to see how many calories was in the food I mindlessly ate. The menus at the restaurant didn't have the caloric values listed on them. And for good reason...

I knew the fries weren't healthy, but it honestly should be a crime to eat a salad that has more than 1,000 calories. (At least I didn't eat the croutons.) Looking at the menu, I can see that the restaurant does have options that are not as calorie-whopping as the salad, but I probably won't go there to eat a soup when the restaurant offers burgers and steaks. They also have salads that are under 500 calories, but I'm allergic to nuts.

Even though I ate only half, I think I easily packed in more than 1,000 calories in one sitting yesterday!

Friday, July 30, 2010

So far in my quest to lose 40 kilos (88 pounds) be hotter than Shakira, my mother has all too eagerly offered me another one of her dieting gems. Her latest suggestion to aid me in the process of burning weight is to eat a piece of pineapple soaked in vinegar.

Yes. You read that correctly.

This advice comes from one of her co-workers. As she reasoned, pineapple has diurectic properties and vinegar impedes fat from building in your body.

I don't know how true that is, or where the scientific proof is to back her claims, but I can tell you that if pickled pineapple doesn't kill your appetite, NOTHING will.This isn't the first time my dear mother has encouraged me to try some crazy dieting sh*t. I remember that when I was younger, she made me imbibe a concoction of boiled orange zest right before lunchtime. It was supposed to help me burn fat. All I recall from it was a pungent bitter taste that comes from unsugared orange peel. This lasted for a good three months or so.

Why would she impose something so ridiculous on me? Because she saw it during a morning talk show and thought it was a good idea.

Lunch, however, was still served in ridiculously large portions. Orange zest water could not possibly shield my body from that.

I'm older now. I prepare my own meals. I control what I eat.

So why would I still try the pickled pineapple? Partly because I'm desperate to try anything, but mostly to stop her from nagging me every day with the question "did you eat some pineapple today?"

Thursday, July 29, 2010

This is an exchange that happened between Coffee Bean and French Bean the other day.

French Bean decided to take a French Facebook quiz that predicted her future state of love.

Her result?

"You will remain alone for the rest of your life."

After taking quiz...

"Someone you know will tell you he loves you after 20 years."

So, what do you think? Shall French Bean die alone, surrounded by cats to which she's allergic? Will Coffee Bean get married and then, after 20 years of marital bliss, have someone tell her "oh, by the way, I luvs you?"

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Many of you are interested in knowing the story that inspired this post. Well it is quite simple, there was no cake or trolls.

The story that led to the confusion of the pancreas being a cake began in my Biology class.

Yes. Biology. Again.

As I might have mentioned in my earlier posts, I tend to fall asleep in my pain in the ass, freaking early in the morning Biology class. So on one of those days when my eyelids were drooping from lack of sleep, my professor showed us a slide full of pictures. One of these pictures looked delicious, and so I thought he was talking about cake.

In exactly two months, I shall be on a plane headed to France. When that day comes, I want to have lost 20 pounds (or even 10 kilos). This is quite a reasonable and feasible accomplishment. As long as I burn 10 pounds each month, I can do it!

I remind you that my ultimate goal is, after all, to lose 40 kilos (88 pounds) be hotter than Shakira.

Can I achieve it? With the right eating, exercise and steel-willed determination...maybe. Shakira is a mega superstar with long, flowing hair and a nutritionist on speed dial. I'm a broke-ass unemployed girl with a remarkably large posterior.

But I shall focus on my 20 pound goal first. After that happens, Shakira had better watch her back!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

I normally avoid lurking by fast food joints. I don't do it because I have a "holier-than-thou" perspective on the matter. I do it because I know better. While it tastes good, fast food is very fattening and addicting, factors which make it difficult for me to stop eating it. I've also read Eric Schlosser's eye-opening Fast Food Nation; that book is enough to make you put down those cardboard fries you unwittingly ingest. In the States, a good percentage of my earnings went into financing McDonald's double quarter pounders with cheese...and it showed on my body, too.

When I was in my Freshman year at college, I was determined to change my overall lifestyle and pretty much swore off all fast food joints. I still had an occasional lapse to eat out with a friend, but at least I no longer craved going to these places on a weekly (sometimes daily) basis. I've kept this up for quite a few years, really.

However, even my French co-workers advised me that I should at least try eating at a French McDonald's once so I could have a first-hand experience at seeing the differences from the American ones. It was already the month of May, and I had only a few days to spare before I hopped back on a plane to Miami. I figured that after living for seven months in France, I could easily walk into a Macdo and order a meal without being suspected of being an American.

Dijon, being the capital of la Bourgogne, has 3 of them. It seems that only the larger French cities have Macdos; they are non-existent in small villages and towns. As I noticed, Macdo seems to be popular with the teenaged/college aged crowd. There is one conveniently located near the university and the Toison d'or mall, Dijon's largest mall.

I decided to go to the latter.

Curiosity made me wonder what were the French versions of supersizing. I had been expecting McDonald's to employ a French equivalent. Maybe it was also Supersize? Perhaps supertaille? Extra Grand? Super gros cul?

I asked my roommate about it.

She wrote it down.

"Best Of."

I suppose that it wasn't fair for me to ask her the complexities of improper use of English grammar. That isn't the only grammatical issue that drove me up the wall, by the way. I understand the notion that foreigners view English as a cool language, yet the French somehow think it's a wonderful idea to make a noun sound even more English by placing a possessive apostrophe and an extra S when it doesn't need one. Donut's, Doot's, Burger's, McDonald's (oh, that one already had the apostrophe). My English major senses violently made my jaw twitch. The burger's what? The donut's what? Its chocolate glaze, perhaps? Its gaping hole?

Anyway, I went to the Toison d'Or mall where I was greeted by the familiar yellow M with a green background. The French seem to prefer green to red...

Once in front of the counter, I scanned the pictures grafted above the cashier's head and placed my order. I've never liked Big Macs and I never will. The quarter pounder was no where to be seen. I remember seeing instead something called the Royal Cheese which resembled the sandwich. I chose to order a Royal Deluxe. It looked like a quarter pounder that was forcibly under attack by lettuce and tomatoes to make it slightly healthier. After seven months of living in France, I was ready to finally ask for a meal.

And she was right. French McDonald's doesn't have numbered menus. You have to order the actual sandwich and then state if you want fries and a drink. I could even buy a beer with my burger if I wanted. Apparently, ordering at McDonald's is the best way to smoke out an American because they are way too used to the ordering system to know their own good. I apologized to the attendant with my cheeks flushed with shame.

In reality, the sandwich tasted more to me like the McDonald's food I had in Cartagena, Colombia rather than the one in my neighborhood. The mustard, however, was distinctly the Dijonnaise kind (though not as nostril-burning strong as it normally tastes).

I suppose that le meilleur de features the worst belief of all American fast food eating mantras: ginormous portions are better.

Of course, "ginormous" at a French Macdo means "slightly larger than a Happy Meal." I had the impression that I was sitting down to an imaginary mice tea party complete with cardboard French fries. The double cheeseburger that I see displayed on the $1 menus in Miami costs a little over two euros in Dijon. The apple pies are not cheap, either. As my experience showed, you leave a French McDonald's feeling quite dissatisfied and just a bit hungry.

I guess you have some questions to ask me.

What is your favorite fast food place in France?

Well, it's definitely not McDonald's.

Is it its Belgian competitor, Quick Burger?

Eh, Quick is not too bad, but their advertisements do drive me up the wall. It has gotten to the point that if I see another one of their "English" language posters with the words annoyingly translated into French hanging at the Divia bus stops, I just might take a picture and submit it to Engrish.com.

Okaaaaaaay. Then, which is it, dang it?

My honest answer is the Turkish sandwich kebab with a side of frites (or just kebab frites).

This is what one looks like:

I love these things. They are cheap-ish and very filling, but I try not to eat them too often. It is said that one kebab frites contains the caloric allotment of one full day! Dijon has several "kebaberies" in the Centre Ville, all vying for someone to buy their sandwiches. And I've tried the kebabs at a few places. My favorite kebaberie happens to be one called Royal Sandwich, located on Rue de la Liberté and not too far from Café les Grands Duc. I specify where it is because there are like five (yes, 5) places that sell kebabs on said street, one of which's food made me throw up a bit. I once said to a friend that there are probably more kebaberies in Dijon than there are cafés.

For those who say "Oh, you've got to try Ekin Kebab on Avenue du Maréchal Foch! The service is quick and they make their own bread! Once you eat there, you'll never go back!"

I've eaten there. I've still gone back to Royal Sandwich. Sorry.

In short, when I am in France, I don't eat Macdo. I am more likely to feast on a kebab frites with mayonnaise...yum!

Monday, July 26, 2010

Prior to my departure in May, in the month of April, I filled out some paperwork to the Caisse d'Allocations Familiales (CAF). The CAF is responsible for helping low-income families with their housing situations by reimbursing a partial amount of what they paid. Despite being a foreigner, I, as a "fonctionnaire de la république," qualified for these same services. (You gotta admire the French for all of these social aids.)

I asked my landlord to fill out his set of documents and I did the same with mine. I turned in a copy of my salary from the lycée, made photocopies of my visa, my titre de séjour, even my birth certificate. I filled in my income information for 2008. I submitted these documents to the organization and thought that I was home-free. I should have that money reimbursed into my bank account in no time at all.

WRONG.

The persnickety French organizations always have the knack to corner me with something. More than three months have passed since I sent in that rotten paperwork, and the CAF still has not reimbursed the money that I need to survive my arrival back in Dijon.

My French landlord was nice enough to forward me the letter that reads as such:

Mlle French Bean:

-You forgot to sign a document that you thought only corresponded to your landlord.-Please provide us with a copy of your salary bulletin for the months of September and October

-What was your professional work situation in September 2009?

...It's a good thing I'm nearly 9,000 km away so they could not see the mini-explosion I had when I received this letter.

I shouldn't complain. If I do things correctly, then I should have the money I paid for. No problem. All I need to do is send out the documents they ask for and give an explanation as to why I was a nearly-unemployed soul during the month of September while stating that I am still an employed soul and have no money for survival in Dijon. As long as I can pay my rent, then I can forget about eating. Food is over-rated, anyway and I'd rather have a roof over my head.

Ugh.

And while I'm at it, I shall make my appointment at the French consulate to have my visa paperwork filed.

I will not drink you unless you are cold. Sorry, but I simply had to let you know that. I don't care if you come from the tap...just be cold.

I also tell you that I refuse to shower in you. My skin requires you to be at a scalding temperature to give me the false impression that I have actually cleaned myself well enough. Yes, I know hot water is bad for my skin, but I still like it, dang it.

Dear Credit Card,

I hate you. Die.

Dear Demon Chihuahua,

I love you. Please stay with me forever. <3

Dear Garbage Bag in the Garbage,

You really, really stink repulsively today, but I'm too lazy to throw you out. I think I'll eventually do so once I finish forcing back the urge to gag every time I walk past you.

Dear Frying Onions,

Thank you so much for masking the stench coming from the Garbage Bag. Now, do me a favor and remove your stench from my clothes and hair.

Dear Dead Lizard in my Room,

Not to sound heartless, but couldn't you have died elsewhere???

Now I shall have to contact the D.A. so they can identify you and then notify your lizard friends and family of your unfortunate passing. I may or may not attend your funeral.

Dear Sun,

I can't walk outside if you keep shining down all day long. You make it too hot.

Dear Rain,

Stop falling when I am in the middle of my evening walks. That pesters me out of my mind.

Dear Car Which has a Booming Sound System,

You are so not cool, dude. The way your windows rattle every time the music thunders out a beat makes me burst out laughing. Plus, you make me want to raise the auditive level on my MP3 player; I don't need yet another factor that will cause me to go deaf by the time I'm 30.

Dear Cosmo,

Please stop sending me "courtesy" issues of your crap magazine. I have never been, nor will I ever be, interested in reading articles that give out waaaaaaay too much information about potential (and so far non-existent) sexual positions I could try out.

Thanks.

P.S.

You do realize that you've been sending me these magazines in Spanish, right? If you want to make me slightly less grumpy, try sending them to me in FRENCH.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

For those who missed this post, I promise that I will write the second part at some point. But for now, I just feel like I need to take a break from the "I hate you" songs. I'll switch to Vem Dançar Kuduro by Portuguese singer Lucenzo.

It was early May. As I cleaned my ex's small apartment in rainy Dijon, I used his laptop to have Youtube play the video en boucle. Since I was alone, I was completely confident to dance around in the way you do when no one is watching. I grasped the mopped and swished it to the jamming beat.

I swung my hips rhythmically as water splashed on the floor. I sometimes pumped my fist in the air, punching in time to the music.

It's such a happy song that it made me want to dance. Very few songs have that effect on me these days...

Or so I wish. I'm not even the Queen of Cleaning, which is admittedly not a very fun royal title.

I love this song! J'en kiffe!

I guess it helps that I can't understand the language. I only comprehend the beat.

Perhaps that's the same concept of the inexplicable trend Anime fans had by animating their favorite chibi-ized characters to dance swinging their hips and flapping their hands on their foreheads to the so-called Speedycake remix of CaramellDansen.

I prefer the original version of the song, though.

Uh-oh...

(Sadly enough, this chibi version of myself has roughly the same proportions that my body has IRL.)

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

At times, when I have nothing to do I like to just relax on a computer and ask Google questions.

Yes, I am that bored.

I mostly spend my time on the computer located on campus, and I must say people have searched for the weirdest things.

Exhibit #1:

As you can see all I did was write 'how to run away' and Google gave me a whole bunch of options. My favorite is the one with the cops...of course.

Exhibit #2:

This is where the fun begins...People on campus are so freakin' weird. Who the hell wants to know how to destroy angels?! And I find it funny how it is in between getting rid of fleas and boiling eggs. Yes. This should definitely be my to do list.

I also did a bit of research myself, and my findings were not at all normal.

Exhibit #3:

Yes. I thought I was the only weirdo asking Google what my life would be in 10 years. Though I never imagined there would be a site dedicated to the whole idea of '10 years later'.

Exhibit #4:

The Ex-Boyfriend seems to be a very popular topic amongst us at Two Beans or Not Two Beans...so why not?! When I looked up ex-boyfriend, I found out that you can sell the jewelry (and other stuff as well) that your ex-boyfriend gave to you. It is amazing!! you make money from a break-up...pssh and here I thought break-ups were bad. Also notice how they have a picture of an "ex-boyfriend" punching bag (I need to get myself one). If you look to your right you will see a list of suggested topics, notice how the first one is 'ex-boyfriend revenge'.

Exhibit #5:

The Ex-girlfriend for the male readers. Here you will see that you can put pictures up of your ex-girlfriend to humiliate her. I do not suggest it, but it does seem kind of fun to have others rate your ex-girlfriend. (Also, I am aware that I misspelled the written stuff up there).

Exhibit #6:

I really thought this was amusing. I type in zebra and the first picture I see is of a zebra on a motorcycle. :p

Exhibit #7:

When we started Two Beans or Not Two Beans, we thought we had the most weird and unique name EVER! Of course then I came across this and realized that we aren't the only insane ones, and that someone actually came up with this before we did.

PURE GENIUS.

I would so buy the album, if the band had a different name rather than their name, Baked Beans.

-Hanny the coffee bean

(Disclaimer: I do not own Google, obviously. So the logos and all that stuff is not mine, except for the comments next to the Google links).

Being a first-generation American, I am used to the idea of stating what my background is. One takes pride in ones origins and roots. America is indeed a veritable melting pot of cultures from all over the world. Blah, blah, blah and all that good stuff...

The French, however, are adamant on insisting that they are French. Even if their origins come from another country, a Frenchman or Frenchwoman will identify themselves as French. I noticed that in the larger cities, France is evolving into a multi-cultural society. The small villages seem to consist of predominantly White French. (In my ex's tiny village, there was only one Black guy.) The French even talk of la France profonde, which I equate to as "backwards France." These are people who believe that France needs to be kept "racially" French...whatever that means.

Enter the North Africans from the Magreb of countries Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia. I've noticed that French Algerians and French Moroccans have the preference of identifying themselves by their roots. This, of course, clashes with the mentality that "we are culturally French and we must stick to how we've always done it."

I tread upon this subject with great care because the societal issues of cultural integration hit the French hard into their national core. As an American, it fascinated me how different my perceptions were to the French. I have no qualms stating my roots because they contribute to who I am as a person. The French tend to identify themselves based on their région or city: "I am Parisian." "I am Bourguignon." For the North Africans, the tendancy tends to be their parents' homelands.

The following is my lousy attempt at just giving the basic historical facts of the French-Algerian War and relations in an un-biased, non-controversial manner.

Way back when, Algeria was a French colony. The Algerians wanted their country to no longer be a French colony. Both countries fought each other on Algerian soil between 1954 to 1962. Algeria won independence. Algerian men came to France to work, leaving their families behind. In the '60s and '70s, the French government started a family regroupment program that brought the families left behind into France. And everyone lived uncomfortably ever after.

I'm not going to sugarcoat it: the minorities in France tend to be discriminated. They sometimes are designated to live in Habitation à loyer modéré (HLM), and they have difficulty finding stable, well-paying jobs. Bad economy exists everywhere, but it especially sucks for certain people because they have convinced themselves that they have zero chances of getting out of their situations. The French don't really admire the "American Dream" of starting from nothing and eventually working your way up to something.

**********************************************

The most contact I've had with French North Africans is pretty much limited to the random guy who cat-called "hé Mademoiselle" and chased me down a couple of blocks while he annoyingly insisted that I was a very lovely lady.

Now, for an explanation to the post's title: Sur la Tête de ma Mère.

When I first heard this phrase, one French friend explained that it was typical for French Arabs to sometimes swear on their mother's head when they wanted to assert that what they said wass true. They view their mothers as being the most sacred thing in their lives. Otherwise, they would not think of uttering those words.

I was shocked. I would never think of swearing on my mother's head because she probably would not like me doing so. Maybe that is why I was also fascinated by this saying. The differences in culture entrance me.

Then, a few days later, after I had gone happily believing that I had learned a new thing about the North African culture, another French friend insisted that this was completely untrue and that the phrase was indeed 100% French.

In other words, don't always believe what people say because they sometimes don't know it themselves...this phrase may have originated in Bulgaria for all I know.

********************************************

Shortly before my departure from Dijon, I had the chance to see the music video of the rapper L'Algerino. The song is called --you guessed it-- "Sur la Tête de ma Mère."

At first, I thought that I was watching an advertisement from the Marseille tourism board. We get a glimpse of what seems to be the Vieux port. Expansive views of the ocean spread across the screen as the sun casts a golden glow upon the city. Waves crash against rocks and explode into white foam. The opening shots feature images of the Vélodrome stadium, where the football team Olympique Marseille plays.

There is no doubt that Mr. Algerino has Marseillaise pride in his blood. In the video, he cruises down Marseille in a gleaming black Audi with all of his buddies in tow. The license plate proudly bears a 13 (the département Bouches du Rhône) thus indicating that the car was registered in Marseille.

The contrasting lyrics, however, are what seal the deal. In the song, L'Algerino gloats about the good life he has while complaining about social injustices (the police ask him for his papers while he's driving in a Mercedes Benz). The song as some point mentions that he even spends a day in prison.

On another note: seeing as how the U.S. team knocked Algeria out of the World Cup, I now wonder that if that jeopardizes my safety in France. I've heard that football fanatics can truly take their passion to horrible extremes...

Monday, July 19, 2010

[Based on your level of experience, you may or may not be able to relate to this post.]

Many years ago, while watching an episode of Frasier, I was introduced to the famous list of the five stages of grief, more appropriately known as the Kübler-Ross model. Technically, this process is related to people who have been diagnosed with a terminal illness and therefore must come to terms with their inevitable passing. However, I clearly remember on Frasier that Kelsey Grammer's character went through the process after he had been laid-off from his radio host job at KACL.

If it worked for Frasier Crane, it can certainly work for me.

1) DENIAL

Um, what?

What did you say?

It's over??? No, it can't be. I refuse to believe it!

Maybe he's just playing a trick on me. Maybe he just wants to have some time to himself. Maybe he will realize what a mistake he is making by breaking it off with me.

Put these ponderings to rest: the omniscient Facebook sees it all.

It can't get any clearer than that.

2) ANGER (Also known as "Crazy-Bitch Mode")

There are several ways to display your rancor.

a. Write him a series of expletive-laced "I hate you" letters

(Do not mail these out. That would be kicking the horse when it's already dead.)

b. Dance like a loon to a series of "I hate you" songs. That being said, the song will have a major bonus if it has a rocking beat.

Example:

(I realize the subject of this song happens to be a girl but, oh, Juanes, you totally understand me! If you don't understand Spanish: trust me, this song fits perfectly with what I'm feeling.)

c. While listening to the "I hate you" songs, tear to little itty-bitty pieces any photographs you still have have him lying around. You'll find that this can be extremely therapeutic. Throw away the torn pieces in the trash, right where they belong.

d. Build a time capsule. Place away all of the items that remind you of him/that he gave to you in a box along with your "I hate you" letters. Seal that box. In twenty years, when your life is significantly successful, open the box and laugh.

Note: Don't let your anger get out of hand. You may start to become angry at things that have no fault whatsoever.

3) BARGAINING

Why on earth would you bargain anything with that jerk? Ugh. Skip this step.

4) DEPRESSION

Depression is NOT an option. That loser doesn't deserve your tears, nor will smoking marijuana, nor will scarfing down a box of Oreos daily be conducive to your well-being.

Instead of moping, focus on improving yourself, on making yourself be better. Set positive goals for yourself and cast aside the spurned, lovesick naïve girl; she's nothing but a shadow of who you used to be.

Here's my goal: (Oh, stop sniggering. This is a good goal, dammit.)

5) ACCEPTANCE

Now the process is complete. You did it! You have surpassed the Colombian mega-star in hotness ranking and you've consoled yourself with the idea that your ex's life will only amount to being that of the town's canine feces collector.

French and Coffee Bean

Barb: Join us as we go through life warding off creepers around the world!
Hanny: Come to the dark side, we have cookies....and beans.
Barb: Seriously. We have freshly-baked cartoon cookies.
Hanny: And if you go on our twitter, we have beans galore.
Barb: Be sure to share our hilarious feats of hilarity like a virus!
Hanny: Or else...